


Break The Cutie

by TheLittleDayDreamer



Series: Nora + Michael [4]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: 1950s!, 1960s!, F/M, Mad Men - Freeform, Scottish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 17:40:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21275123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLittleDayDreamer/pseuds/TheLittleDayDreamer
Summary: Tides are changing, but Nora’s still drowning.





	Break The Cutie

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Substance abuse, suicide, cheating, abortion, language and slight implications of dub-con.
> 
> Should also mention, some of the ages aren't perfect to the canon because I'm shit at maths, so don't think too much into it.

**September 18, 1961.**

The redhead breathlessly exhaled, falling back against the harsh wooden bed-frame with her hand pushing into the rug as she fights against the rush off drowsiness consuming her consciousness. Beautiful, perfect and purely artificial locks are carelessly crushed against the side of their mattress. The singeing cigarette Nora grips between her fingers becomes blurry, forgetting it’s even in her possession as she could no longer feel the rolled skin resting against her bone.

There’s an exhilarating curse resting on her lips, though Nora’s that lost in her vice, she’s lost the will to care. Nobody wants to hear such profanities anyway, especially not from a _fucking_ housewife. Shelby women had voices, when their husbands were willing to listen. Her breaths were ragged, exhausted but easily hidden from the blaring television set downstairs that her children had been numbingly watching since early this morning. So much so, they’d forgotten about the need for her; as if that wasn’t the story of her life.

A Technicolor machine was raising her children better than she was. Honestly, as long as it wasn’t Michael; Nora felt it was good enough. They were getting older, fleeing the nest which meant she should too. Even the thought of letting George move into the city was agonising. He was still in London but within walking distance of Shelby Company Ltd. It made her skin crawl; the iron grip was slipping.

Once upon a time she’d loved her little ones: running around the house with them; bathing and feeding them so when playtime was over she’d send them on their way to brush their baby teeth and let their dad put them to sleep, then they’d cuddle-up in bed letting the cycle repeat each day. Although recently, playtime never seems to begin.

Now? She’s lounging in a baby pink negligee testing the limits of this new, rather attractive pill just on the market. _Love drug_, they called it. Perhaps it was, maybe in some fucked up way Nora wanted what the shrinks said be true.

Unfortunately, the opium and snow she’d nicked off just about everybody wasn’t enough these days. Ideal for ignoring lice and sick-stains but not a dying relationship and distant off-spring.

Still, that, that was the girl she remembered. A snippy, outspoken firecracker who was not subdued into the corner of a family meeting with an ageing Lizzie. Instead telling Thomas Shelby he could _‘take a fucking hike’_ or _‘shove it up his backside’_ from the day that silver band was placed around her finger and she said, _‘I do.’_

But Thomas Shelby wasn’t Michael Gray. Thomas Shelby had no power over her children.

_ “He’s already won sweetheart, you just never let him know that.”_

Selina Taylor could be a haunting enigma, coming and going, lurking in the depths of her daughter’s self-hatred and deprecation. Preaching an unsustainable state of being in both her social life and marriage once leaving her own family behind. Nobody really knew her, but she knew everyone. The Romani woman hated outsiders, despite conforming to being one after birthing children throughout her early twenties, until it consumed every inch of her soul, bending her will before it eventually broke. Fifteen years later, Selina finally escaped her small, decrepit cage in the east of Glasgow.

She jumped from the Taylor’s-Inn on a cold November’s morning in 1933. Leaving three children with nothing but a familiar stranger.

Because he’d won, _hadn’t he? _No-one taught his little birdie how to fly, just simply fall.

* * *

Rosie looked down, toying with her hem of the pleated skirt. It was an overbearing mustard yellow with red and black stitching resembling that of her mother’s family tartan, which by proxy – as her older brother would say – makes it her’s. A jacket to match and loose white shirt meant she was dressed for success to enter such a grand, city building. Nothing like what they’d see in Beaconsfield with even their local shops being few and far between.

She’d been staring out of the Bentley in awe of the buzzing industrial area, filled with afternoon commuters heading home after a stressful day at the office. Briefcases in one hand and either a jacket or hat in the other. Some even had umbrellas, even though it was summer! The women she glanced over in London didn’t dress like the women in her life, they wore dull dresses with brown shoes, grey flowing coats and thick black gloves.

Rosie felt the same way in Wales when they went for a brief visit. It was all very last minute, hurriedly getting on the wrong train and having to stay in pissing-down Britain when all she really wanted to do was visit the Eiffel Tower, see her Gran, buy some new outfits and perhaps learn a little local dialect - she already spoke Scots, why not French? 

‘_Mum didn’t seem too bothered staying in Cardiff.’_

Her mother flourished in colour: dresses, cotton cardigans and skirts galore. She especially glowed in green. Loving the glamour about them and the individuality, perhaps Rosie felt the same way too. She did love red, it was always a favourite, mostly when she saw it placed upon her mother’s plump lips before hanging on her father’s arm, which is when the golden glow of happiness; it strangely seemed to plateau.

It wasn’t often the couple would go to - rather infamous - parties under her father’s company. Sure, they were vaguely young and tended to over indulge in some destructive habits. Rosie had grown to expect seeing her mum giggling to no-one in particular with tousled hair, ruined make-up, tripping over her own two feet the following morning whilst making the weekend fry up. Recognising the desire to finally enjoy the lifestyle they, well, her mother was cheated of during their prime.

Pulling her back to reality, the thirteen-year-old felt a clammy gust of wind hit against her bare legs as the car door swung open revealing their cousin, Charlie. He’d done them a favour understanding the fragile relationships between the Shelby’s and their children. He didn’t want the Gray’s to suffer the same fate. The longer as they could keep a healthy back and forth with Michael things might be okay.

He’d done this run a handful times, his aunt none the wiser but it was better that way. 

Michael was usually expecting them. Five o’clock, every Friday night he’d take them out to look at the glistening water in the Thames, get some late ice-cream he’d left in the freezer and sometimes, they’d go to the pictures if anything half-decent was showing. _Sleeping Beauty_ was a favourite, but on the odd occasion they’d have to begrudgingly leave when the film began to scare Violet.

George’s ship had sailed and Jack was permanently glued to that bloody television set Isaiah gifted the family a few years ago, but Rosie? Rosie’s had Michael wrapped around her finger ever since he’d stepped off that train in 1945 and laid eyes on shy four-year-old cowering behind her mummy’s leg. Well, after his eldest tried to floor him on the busy platform with a hug.

And Charlie? Well, he had an excuse to go fuck his new squeeze who lived in Camden for a couple of hours without the conniving eyes of Ruby noting his every movement around Arrow House when he isn’t at university.

“Now you remember what I told you Ro,” he warns, even so, knowing she’s not listening as the brunette slides her baby sister into her arms, he continues, “Any, and I mean any of them touch you or Violet, ‘an I’ll cut their fingers off, aw’right?”

She nods in response. Rosie knows what he means and that her father would’ve already ripped the _bad-man_ apart before her eighteen-year-old cousin got anywhere near him.

“You see this?” Charlie pulls at the sleeves of his tailored black suit back, revealing a leather watch. “Right, when it hits eight o’clock, that’s when I’ll be waiting and you better be here or else Aunt Nora’s going to clip my bloody ear.”

* * *

She wanted him to touch her. She wanted his fingers roam, grip and pull at her ageing skin that so deeply longed for him. Let the same fingers that so often traced rough-edged paper turn their attention to her, like it had done so many times in the past; even when she couldn’t bear to look at him, to think about him and just wanted nothing more than to run from_ him._

Nora ached as she lay in the distant void left by her husband, but she had no energy to fight for his undivided unconditional love anymore, even with the figure that bore the bones and scars of the one he used to worship. The one that gave him his pleasure, pride and satisfaction. He didn’t care for the body that birthed his own blood four-times over. Some say, you only want something when you no longer have it.

_“Mummy! Mummy!”_

Christ. Shackled in a fucking cage carved from their own youthful ambition within an eclectic Victorian home. Walls painted in muted brown or a washed-out beige that would make her majesty look on in envy.

He’d never want her again; not after what she’d done.

_ “When’s dinner?”_

That’s all she ever was, right? The wife. A secured muted woman they could return to. Nora can’t help but snort at her naivety as teen, when she looked to the powerful older women with aspiration: Esme, Jessie, Ada. God, even Polly. All victims who crumbled in the wicked ways of a man’s world.

_ “I’m hungry!”_

Living back in Small Heath nobody dared to lay their eyes on a married man. Whether it be shame from their community, their family or themselves. But, these London women, they were different. Bold, young, fresh and poisonous - rather pretentious to be blunt - still, they’d been taught that if they wanted something, they could have it. Even a _Shelby._

Nora couldn’t help but ponder throughout her younger years, had Michael numerously cheated on her? It wouldn’t be uncharacteristic of him but she always assumed he was rather traditional, if not for her sake but for the children. Both, hormonal twenty-something’s, their needs where rather aligned, but being up the duff so often she knew Michael couldn’t have been content with just his hand.

She also wasn’t stupid, Charlotte Riley proved that. Being only three months pregnant at the time with Rosalin, it just didn’t phase her. Michael could sleep with ever he wanted. Nora didn’t even _like_ her husband that much.

Then after the war, they had their little Jackie and everything just seemed to fall into place.

She could almost hear his angelic voice fading.

The Scottish woman was drowning in her own sorrow of lost love, despair and self loathe - or at least floating above it - resting on the line of sheer self-awareness yet risking being drowned in her own ignorance.

_ “Mummy?”_

* * *

Rosie’s nose twitches at the pungent, vile smell of an overbearing citrus scent as she carries her baby sister through the deep, twisting halls of Shelby Company Limited. It’s not a welcoming smell but it’s the one she’s begrudgingly used to.

_ Coco Chanel,_ infamously.

Ironically, a good friend of her grandmother’s. Unlike the ghastly woman the smell was clinging to.

She’d adored _‘Aunt Coco’_ and despite only seeing her handful of times: holidays in Paris; Christmas parties; New Year’s Eve, and every other birthday for either herself or one of her siblings, she always made sure to leave behind some little goodies for them to enjoy until the next time.

With no grandchildren of her own, Rosie became the surrogate. The little girl with pigtails she could dress up to her heart’s content, as her own family watched on in tipsy giggles. The teen vividly remembers being young and having to endure the designer pulling and tugging at brunette strands then drenching them in a wet, sticky lacquer before doing the same to her face after applying some of the iconic red-lippy.

Then once their carry-on fashion show was over, as Rosie paraded before the family in a handmade gown fit for her age, it was back to being the_ kid._

She didn’t belong with her big brother, who was off play fighting with their older cousins getting dirty in the garden, but she also didn’t belong with Ruby since _she _didn’t want to belong with her. Which, Rosie couldn’t help but always feel Ruby’s point was rather moot. They were the only two girls, why shouldn’t they be friends?

_ ‘She’s just jealous poppet, gets it from that bloody Lizzie.’_ her gran teasingly whispered in her drunken state. Utilising Rosie’s shoulder for balance when she heading towards her drinks cabinet.

Mum was too enticed interacting with other like-minded women to be concerned by any brooding five-year-old antics and Rosie wasn’t interested in getting a swift skelping surrounded by an audience. At the end of the night she’d end up with smeared lipstick, ninth-glass of bubbly in one hand and a freshly lit cigarette in the other, not even bothering to wipe the power from her nose nor adjust the hem of her black dress that had dangerously been hiked-up over the course of the evening.

Which left little Rosie - who’d now pulled apart the painful pins holding in the tight bun - crawling into her dad’s lap in the back office to drift off. Pressed into the warmth of him as the vibrations from the laughter caused by a few boisterous uncles calmed her. Every so often, Michael would drag his hand through some tuggy strands like the way she liked it, as she would claim he was better than _Mummy._

When the early hours of the morning finally grew in, the light seeping through the lacy drapes, she’d find herself back on her father’s chest, wrapped in his cosy black suit jacket from the night before. Joined by a sprawled out George stuck between their parents in her Gran’s spare bed, with a looming fragrance of tobacco and_ citrus._

_ “Oh,”_ she heard a voice, looming with venom, “You’re here.”

Rosie tossed her eyes to the blond, bleached, obviously - it was the new big thing. She rather was young, tall but not too tall and had quite a minimal body-con dress on. So, sadly knew exactly who’d been addressing her.

Joyce Watts.

Or, _“Ah, that fuckin’ boot.”_

* * *

“Charlie must’ve already picked up Rosie and Vi. Not used to it being quiet.” George joked holding the front door open for his cousin, who tossed the mucky football down to the gravel before entering the home. “Wonder if Mum’s noticed?”

Billy holds back a slight dig at his aunt, knowing the volatile state of her marriage might damped the mood after such a good game but it’s not like it wasn’t true. Everybody knew, it wasn’t hidden among the Shelby family nor did the couple even attempt to hide their discontent from one-another during family gatherings. Sometimes it was drunken screaming matches in opposite rooms but thankfully, it was typically snide comments at dinner they could all ignore.

The habits, they consumed the older generations of the family. But, these days the drugs were hidden, stored away in every nook and cranny or in his aunt’s case; shoved down her throat in fear of consciousness. It wasn’t to keep them safe, it was keep feeding their habits.

His own dad had told him stories of the old days, before the war when white powder was being tossed around them like sweeties. Money, guns, power. It captivated him, he wanted a piece of that chaos too. Just looking at old family photos; they all seemed so happy. Including his aunt and uncle, looking so young, holding baby George as his own father took the image. Why couldn’t they have that too?

It’s not like anyone died.

_ Oh._

“Georgie!”

* * *

“Does Mum, ever talk about it?”

“Yeah, not you though. She sure isn’t fond of _her._”

“I wouldn’t imagine so.”

“-neither am I.”

Pursing his lips, Michael watches the brunette teen graze her fingers of the trinkets scattered across his office.

Rosie hadn’t even looked at him since she’d handed over Violet.

As the toddler lightly bounces in his lap, peacefully sucking on her thumb, Michael furrows his brows. Rosie wasn’t typically this distant, nor quiet. Bumbling about, raring to explore the city she’d come to know well over the past few months, granted she hadn’t been back in a while since Nora’d taken them out of the country.

“Heard you lot went back to France, any good?” He awkwardly ponders, though as Rosie came to flop back down on the leather chair, though she became much more interested in the packet slipping out her coat’s pocket.

“You’re smoking now?”

“No.”

“Rosie.” Michael pressed.

“What? It’s not like I do it all the time, if anything I do it less than the other girls in my class.” The brunette begins to rapidly ramble like a typically teenager but he’s not remotely interested in any excuses. “You and mum should be thanking me that I’ve not picked up any more of your shit habits.”

“Give it, and I want you to drop the language.”

She scoffs, purposely slamming the cardboard down on the wooden desk.

“-and to answer your question, no. Got on the wrong train by accident, ended up in pissing-down Cardiff.”

_ “Rosalin.”_

Rosie puffed, feeling defeated. It wasn’t often she was scolded with her birth-name but when she was, it hurt. Especially, when it was her dad. Her mother seemed to be more callous when scolding her in that particular manner. It was like a sudden tightness in her chest, perhaps the line she was treading seemed to be significantly thinner than she’d last recalled.

“I’ve been to Cardiff, wasn’t too bad.”

“I’m sure you weren’t stuck with_ Laurel and Hardy_ in a smelly hotel room for the weekend.”

“Where was Mum?”

She shrugged “Went to meet a friend, took Vi with her,” Rosie looks down at her sister who’d started to fiddle some buttons on the black waistcoat, “Probably thought we’d_ fling ‘er oot the windae _like Katie did with Charlie.”

Michael scowled, internally cursing. Though he was thankful for his daughter’s naivety to the situation.

Nora didn’t do anything by accident, at least not since they’d had George.

She’d purposely went to Wales and didn’t fucking tell him.

There had been whispers of a woman in Cardiff, years ago, that is. He’d heard Ada mention it in passing, Esme had drunkenly blurted out her own encounter over dinner but then everything changed once his mum sat the two _them _down.

Despite Nora’s hesitance, they were going to do it; everything was bought: the train tickets, the hotel and the car.

Then he went and got himself arrested and by the time he was released, it was too late. They had no other choice but to get hitched.

“-and Mum? She was alright?”

“The usual. Heard her _greetin’_ on the phone to Gran though.”

Michael chuckled, “You sound a lot like her y’know.”

“Would assume so, barely been a day without her.”

There was a brief pause once again, Violet now reaching out for her dad’s significantly larger left hand, entranced by the shiny metal band around his finger as she attempts to take it for herself.

“I do miss your mum Rosie. She’s just difficult sometimes. We aren’t the same people we used to be. I think she misses that life, as much as she hated it at the time.”

“I know, I know. We all know about the Blinder’s back in Small Heath Dad,” she bites her lip before continuing, “-but I just don’t think that’s it. I-It’s like she doesn’t even care anymore! I can’t even remember the last time I saw mum cook, put on make-up, half the time she doesnae ever get bloody dressed!”

Once again, Michael smiled as he heard Rosie slipping into Nora’s habits. The angrier she got, the more Scottish she’d spew. But, seeing the pain behind her outburst, it hurt. His children were now cognisant of Nora’s and his own destructive behaviours, unlike when they were little; repercussions like this were stark and uncomfortable to say the least.

“I’m sorry for leaving.”

“No, Mum kicked you out. We all heard it.” She replied, grumbling towards the end.

“Okay,” he paused, “I’m sorry, for all of this.”

“Dad, I’m not looking for an apology. Mum is.”

“Mum doesn’t want to pick up the phone.”

“Can you blame her?”

There was a blaring ring off to the side, cutting the tension as they glared at each-other. Though, rather than leave the phone to continue Michael picked it up, shifting his younger daughter onto his waist.

Rosie returned to picking at loose hems on her skirt, every so often seeing her dad’s expression deepen from an initial shock, to a panic.

“What’d you mean, _‘Mum’s not moving?’”_

That pain in her chest returned, this time more violent than it had ever been, like a tight, stabbing sensation without the mess. She’d never considered the thought of losing her mother, never mind at such an age. This couldn’t be it, right?

As much as they bickered, snapped and fought with one-another she loved her unconditionally.

“Right, so you’ve phoned the ambulance?” There was another pause. “Good. Now when I hang up I want you to ring Isaiah or Uncle Finn. They’ll sit with you and Jack until it gets to the house.”

She watched as her dad put down the phone, each taking a deep breath.

“Home?”

_ “Home.”_

**Author's Note:**

> There we have it! My Peaky Blinders take on Mad Men. 
> 
> Just when I was re-watching the last couple of season of Mad Men, I truly saw Nora and Michael in Betty and Don. She's a woman selfishly trapped in an ideal form society and her mother expects her to be, despite her inner morals calling and Michael, well he's just a mess. He wants be there for his children but just doesn't know how, he looks at them and all he can see is his damage, this is his fault, Michael just won't admit it.
> 
> I guess it takes losing Nora to realise that.


End file.
